


The Case of the Killer Monkey

by cornmonster



Series: Dupin Retold [1]
Category: C. Auguste Dupin - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Female Narrator, French stereotypes, Himbo Dupin, Humor, Morosexual Narrator, Morosexuality, Multi, Murder Mystery, Orangutans, himbos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornmonster/pseuds/cornmonster
Summary: Two women have been murdered, and only a monkey could have killed them. A retelling of 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue" featuring a himbo Dupin and a morosexual female narrator.
Relationships: C. Auguste Dupin/Narrator (implied)
Series: Dupin Retold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687072
Kudos: 1





	The Case of the Killer Monkey

**Author's Note:**

> Faceclaims  
> Narrator: Estelle Chen  
> Dupin: Adrien Jacques

The bookstore didn’t have any copies of Pride and Prejudice.

I stared up at the shelf before me, my hand to my chest. Panic rose in my heart. Where was it? All of Jane Austen’s other books were there, but no Pride and Prejudice. Perhaps it was too popular and had sold out? That couldn’t be, since I was the only person who visited this store.

Just then, my eyes caught a pink spine and I tilted my head to read the title. Pride and Prejudice. Finally. I released my breath and reached for the book.

My hand brushed someone else’s and a jolt of electricity went through my body. I turned my head to see a tall man standing next to me. He was blond, and his eyes were the color of ice. He smelled like sandalwood and earth.

This man was wearing pink pasties, a pink thong, and four baseball caps at once. The caps had been arranged so that each brim stuck out in a different direction. For a moment, I considered reporting him to the store owners, but for some reason I didn’t want him to get arrested due to public indecency.

“My name is C. Auguste Dupin,” the man said. “We can share the book once we become friends.”

#

A month later… 

Sunlight glinted off my jet-black hair as I strolled through the bustling streets of Paris. The sound of people in conversation enveloped me, and my high heels softly clicked against the street as I passed by a row of old-fashioned street lights. I slowly flipped my hair as the hem of my sky-blue dress swished around my ankles. A cherry-pink handbag dangled from my fingers. My friend C. Auguste Dupin walked beside me.

“I can tell that you’re thinking about how short Chantilly is,” Dupin commented from out of nowhere.

“Not even close. I don’t even know who he is!” I shot him a puzzled look.

“Yes, but when you’re thinking about him now, aren’t you?”

I nodded, rolling my eyes.

“I. Am. A. Genius.” Dupin grinned.

We went to a cafe where we drank coffee and ate macarons. Dupin read the newspaper while I adjusted my sunglasses sexily.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed, sapphire eyes bulging out of their sockets. “Two women were murdered in the Rue Morgue.”

“Fascinating,” I commented, twirling a strand of my hair around my finger.

I took the newspaper from Dupin and read the article myself. The older woman, Madame L’Espanaye, had her throat slashed with a razor, while her daughter, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, was strangled and shoved up the chimney. The room they were in was locked, with the windows tightly shut, and there was “not a clew” as to who committed the murder.

My eyes scanned the word “clew”, fascinated by the unusual spelling. “How did this happen?” I asked.

“Beats me,” replied Dupin.

“Aren’t you, like, a detective?”

“Even detectives make mistakes.”

#

The next morning, I read the newspaper while nibbling a piece of biscotti dipped in a latte, careful not to smudge my magenta lipstick. Dupin, as usual, ate 20 croissants and one baguette.

The other people that lived on the Rue Morgue had been questioned. There were quite a few people, and everyone claimed that they heard two voices, one of which was speaking in a foreign language. The French guy said it was Spanish, the German guy said it was French, the British guy said it was Italian, et cetera. A fact that stood out to me was that a man named Adolphe Le Bon claimed he delivered 4000 francs to the women and left. A possible suspect?

“Hmmm,” I said to myself.

“Mmmpph mmmhhhhggg,” Dupin replied, his mouth stuffed with bread.

There still wasn’t the faintest clew.

#

That evening, I read the evening newspaper while eating coq au vin and sipping burgundy wine. Dupin was eating a live rat for dinner, like he always did.

Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested because police suspected him of wanting the money back. Something was off about the arrest, as if Le Bon was a too obvious suspect and that there was more to the murders.

Dupin took the newspaper. He pressed his face to the paper and stared at it intently. Blood from the rat sianted the paper red.

“Hmm,” Dupin said, rubbing his bare chin. “Hmm. Hmm.” He was clearly just saying that to make himself look smarter.

“What’s your opinion on the murders?” Dupin asked.

“Well, they seem unsolvable to me,” I commented.

“Well, they’re not,” Dupin responded, “for I am a genius detective.”

“Yesterday you couldn’t find your hat when it was on top of your head,” I said, inspecting my reflection in a mirror.

“I have told you countless times before that nobody is perfect.”

I nodded.

“The police are idiots. Why? Because they use methods to solve mysteries. That’s nonsense. I never use any methods. In fact, one time I was baking a cake and I didn’t put any flour in it. Can the police do that? No!”

I stared at him blankly.

“We should go to the Rue Morgue and examine the crime scene,” Dupin declared. “One time, there was a spider in my house, and Le Bon helped kill it. I owe him a favor.”

“Brilliant idea.” I smiled.

#

It was afternoon when we reached the Rue Morgue. A crowd of people surrounded the house, clearly intrigued by the murders.

The house was two stories tall, with a couple of generic cars parked in front of the garage. We walked around and around it, examining the front, the sides, the back, and even the whole neighborhood.

“Why are we doing this?” I asked, taking note of the windows.

‘I like walking,” Dupin replied. 

Once we were inside, we went to the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found. I took out my notepad and sketched the bruises on Mademoiselle L’Espanaye’s neck. Dupin picked up the body and stared at it for a while before sniffing it.

“Um, excuse me. What are you doing?” I asked, gathering several coarse orange hairs from the wood floor.

“Looking for clues,” Dupin replied, licking the light switch.

We went into the bathroom, where Dupin drank a bottle of shampoo. Then we went into the kitchen, where Dupin swallowed a raw egg. Finally we went into the yard, where Dupin talked to Madame L’Espanaye’s severed head like it was alive. Then we left.

“Let’s stop talking about the murder,” Dupin said as we walked home.

“Why?”

“It’s scary.”

#

The next day at noon, I was sipping tea and eating macarons. Dupin was eating snails with the shells still on.

“Hey, have you noticed anything”—Dupin chewed on a snail—“peculiar about the murder?”

“Nothing other than what the newspaper said.”

“The newspaper is a liar. They said chocolate was the best ice cream flavor, when clearly it’s beret. Everyone thinks this mystery is unsolvable because of how bizarre it is, but the most bizarre mysteries are the most solvable. For example, one time someone called me an idiot. I knew that couldn’t be true, because I am the most intelligent person alive.” At this Dupin pointed to his chest and winked. “So I deduced that I must have a lookalike who was an idiot, and that he mistook me for my lookalike.”

I stared at him concernedly.

“I’m waiting for a guy who owns a pet monkey,” Dupin said. “His monkey broke into the Rue Morgue and killed the women. The plan is to wait for him to come here and then shoot him immediately.” He picked up a gun by the barrel and gave it to me.

I took the gun silently while he continued talking.

“You know how everyone heard those voices upstairs? Well, one of the voices was that of… a monkey! I know this because I do not believe the murderer was a human, and if they weren’t a human, then they must be a monkey, because monkeys are almost like humans but not. The voice must have been a monkey’s voice, because everybody said it was a different language, and as you know, monkeys are fluent in every language. It must have teleported into the Rue Morgue and killed the women. See these hairs?” Dupin held up several strands of dark hair.

“Yes.”

“These are the hairs of the monkey!”

I took the orange hairs out of my pants pocket and handed them to him. “Those are  _ my  _ hairs.  _ These  _ are the hairs of the  _ orangutan _ .”

“Alright.” Dupin crossed his arms and pouted.

“What about the other voice?” I asked.

“The other voice belonged to a French guy. He must have been the owner of the monkey.” Dupin handed me an ad clipped from a newspaper.

“Cot: Monky,” I read, taking mental note of the spelling errors. “The ownur may hab it bak if he payz me munny.”

Someone knocked on the door. Dupin opened the door and an orangutan came in.

The orangutan was about half a foot shorter than me, with shaggy orange hairs growing all over its bulky body. Its arms easily reached to its feet. A handful of hairs grew atop its upper lip, giving it a mustache. It was obviously male, given its flanges.

“Please sit down,” Dupin said.

The orangutan hissed at him. I sat down, not taking my eyes off the orangutan.

“T-t-tell me about the m-murders,” Dupin declared.

The orangutan screeched and ran into the kitchen. It grabbed an apple and began eating it.

“That’s it,” Dupin said. “I’m gonna shoot.” He pulled out his gun, pointing it at him.

Just then, a middle-aged man walked through the door, making Dupin drop the gun onto his own foot. “Are you Miss Charlotte Lee?” he asked.

“Yes.” I nodded.

The man sat down at the table.

“Here’s your orangutan. What happened, exactly?” I chewed on my bottom lip.

“I’m a zookeeper. In the morning of the murder, I was cleaning the orangutan enclosure when one of them escaped. I followed it to the Rue Morgue until it climbed up a lightning rod. I tried climbing, but my thighs were too weak.” The zookeeper slapped his thigh. “After a while, I heard screams, and then the body of the old lady was thrown out the window. I fainted, and after I woke up, I immediately ran home and called the police.”

I wrote down what he said on my notepad. “I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

Dupin’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

“I noticed that there were long, orange hairs in the room, and that the bruises on Ms. L’Espanaye’s neck didn’t match up with human handprints.”

“That makes so much sense. I’m still the world’s best detective, but you’re the world’s second best.”

‘Bye,” the zookeeper said. He put a leash on the orangutan and walked out the door.

#

The next day, I was reading the news while eating cheese and crackers. Dupin had just finished eating a guillotine.

“Good news,” I said. “Le Bon has been freed.”

“Yay me!” Dupin shouted. “I solved another case!”


End file.
